Throngs of the disheveled and defiant control Maidan. Critical mass is reached around a rock-concert-sized stage from which a succession of agitators in street clothes tries to rev up revolutionary zeal. It’s cold but bright, and the burnt smell of urban camp life drifts in and out over the masses. Some squat around smoking trash barrels, the backs of burly peasant women wrapped heavy for winter.
Others march in makeshift patrols. Blue and gold flags flutter overhead. Spirited young men, some severe, are everywhere… and university girls, too. A few cover their faces with scarves. Banners of black and red also protrude from the crowd clusters like sentries on the lookout for action. The litter of barricades on the periphery emerges now and then as the tide of people in protest ebbs and surges to its own un-orchestrated rhythm.
Inside an editorial office not far from Ground Zero Kyiv sits a withered newsman who once counted himself among the young, and not so long ago. The afternoon light bathes his age-spotted hands. The eyes look large but weary of life. His suspenders, devoid of any snap.
“I just need to put my name back on the masthead to let people know I’m still here,” he’s thinking.
“I really don’t have to be part of the paper’s official email system. It’s actually better that I’m not.”
His fingers, crippled at the joints, make slow uncertain movement over the keyboard.
“What’s wrong with this mouse, anyway? What a silly word when one thinks of it. Do I leave it some cheese when I’m finished here… or set a trap for its friends if they try to run roughshod over the newsroom once everyone’s gone home?”
As it is, almost everyone has already gone home, except for Chief Editor Bret Boner. He sits alone, witness to only the fading day, as seen through the airtight windows of the editorial office. The sights and sounds of revolution have been largely received by him over the news wires, and in English at that.
“People are like mice, too,” he ponders. “They run all over you if you fall asleep on the job.”
Not that Boner was ever caught snoozing behind his desk. On the contrary: the man never seemed to leave the office. There was always a headline to write or the top story to obsess over. And the photos! It’s that front pager that makes the paper, no matter what anyone thinks. So these things take time out of a man’s life, eventually becoming life itself. What indeed does a workplace lack if it lacks anything at all? Food and coffee are plenty, either in the office kitchen or down on the street at one of several eateries.
The bathroom’s big enough to take a shit and shave while one’s at it as well – heck! And you always want to look good at work. Who knows what important person will drop by to request an interview, consult on the country’s ever-changing state of affairs or simply sit in awe of the expatriate life, exemplified by the selfless professional married to his work.
“Oh, what’s this – an email from Jacob Perfidsky?”
His personal message box, cluttered and unkempt, isn’t what it used to be. So many unedited articles, or requests for coverage by the paper’s shrinking readership. There’s even a letter from a Nigerian minister who needs a wire transfer to achieve freedom of conscience.
“My, I have fallen behind on things… but let’s see what Jacob wants for goodness’ sake?”
‘Bret, you needn’t show up at the Golden Monkey Investment Conference if you don’t want to. That includes the Gala Dinner to be held afterwards, too. I will be speaking at both. Please do ask for help if reporting on continuing street demonstrations becomes too much – but not from me, I’ve got my hands full. There should be enough journalists on hand to support your every effort. If not, the budget just won’t support any more. Revolutions, I suppose, could up our international exposure, so I’m counting on you to hold down the fort. Oh, and if you really feel it’s necessary to put your name back on the masthead – temporarily of course – I don’t mind at all. Although, what Mr. Zaire may think is an entirely different matter, which I guess you already know. See you, but not soon, Jacob Perfidsky, your boss and the paper’s CEO.’
“Well, I guess that just says it all,” says the aged wordsmith, now fumbling to try to delete the in-house instruction.
“I used to deliver a gala speech or two in my day, which wasn’t that long ago, as I recall. But time flies fast in this business. One day you’ve got the halls of power hanging on every headline – whether it’s punctuated with a question mark or not – and the next… well the next, you feel like a rickety ol’ war horse with its balls cut off and hidden among the mess you call your desk…”
“See you tomorrow, Bret,” says Hound Dog Face … and then to herself, “or maybe I won’t, by the looks of you.”
His once inseparable sidekick is carrying a not altogether unfamiliar plastic bag that just might hold among its contents a well-worn Media Man costume, possibly altered to the needs of her unflattering but undeniably feminine figure. Anyway, that’s the way it looks from across the room – not that Boner would have noticed. For you see, he’s not been himself since well over a couple of months now, when he returned to his job after being unceremoniously fired and then replaced by the career-minded Perfidsky, who ended up inviting him back at a significant decrease in salary of course…
“And on top of that I have to do all the editing…” he moans, reaching for another handful of extra-strength Rooster Tablets and a half-filled glass of tap water.
Hound Dog Face looks significantly at the tablets and frowns on her way out. What is it about the clownish old face on the label of the pill bottle that so disturbs our up-and-coming heroine?
TO BE CONTINUED…
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, for International Anarchist, Vol. IIIL, Paper 832, December 6, 2013